The night was still, the city's noise muted beneath the silver wash of the moon. Arin sat on the rooftop ledge, legs dangling into the empty dark, her bruised knuckles resting in her lap.
She tilted her head back, eyes fixed on the pale circle above. For a long moment, her hardened features softened, shadows easing from her face.
Her fingers moved instinctively to the locket hanging against her chest. The metal was worn, the edges dulled from years of touch, but she held it with care, thumb tracing its curve as if it were something fragile and alive.
A faint smile touched her lips, bittersweet. She whispered into the silence, her voice carrying only to the moon,
"Hope you are fine… and doing well."The city lights flickered far below, but up here it felt like she was somewhere else entirely—somewhere closer to the ones she remembered, the ones she missed.
Arin closed her eyes, clutching the locket to her heart, and let the night hold her.
The alley was alive with noise, a wall of voices shouting, laughing, and calling bets. Neon signs buzzed overhead, painting the cracked pavement in pulsing colors. At the center, a ring had been carved out of the crowd, nothing more than space marked by crates and barrels.
"Five hundred on him!" a man barked, shoving bills into his friend's hand.
"You're crazy—he's too good!" another argued, shaking his head as coins clinked in his palm.
The young man—broad-shouldered, every movement coiled with strength—tightened the wraps on his knuckles. His friends leaned against the wall, grinning ear to ear as they gathered the wagers, confidence glowing in their eyes.
"This is number twenty-one," one of them crowed. "He hasn't lost a single one yet. Easy money!"
The challenger stepped forward, tall and scarred, grinning with chipped teeth. He cracked his knuckles. "That streak ends tonight."
The crowd roared as they met in the ring.
The first blow came fast—a jab aiming for the young man's jaw. But he slipped aside, smooth as water, and answered with a sharp hook to the ribs. The challenger staggered but stayed standing, swinging again, wilder this time. The young man ducked low, driving his shoulder into the man's chest and sending him crashing back against the crowd barrier.
Cheers erupted. Bets exchanged faster. "Double or nothing!" someone yelled.
The fight surged on—punches traded, sweat flying under the streetlights. The young man moved like lightning, each strike measured and merciless. A final uppercut landed with a crack, and the challenger dropped to the ground, sprawling, too stunned to rise.
The alley exploded with sound. His friends shouted his name, laughing as they counted their winnings. One waved a thick roll of bills in the air. "Drinks on us tonight!"
The young man raised a hand, grinning at the crowd, his chest heaving but his eyes sharp and bright. He wasn't just fighting—he was putting on a show, and the city loved him for it.
The streak lived on, unbroken, and the night burned with celebration.
Golden light spilled through tall arched windows, washing the chamber in warmth. Silk curtains swayed gently with the breeze, carrying the faint scent of jasmine from the gardens below.
"Lady Aelin… it is time to wake."
The maid's voice was soft but steady as she drew back the drapes. The young girl stirred beneath layers of velvet sheets, a crown of sunlit hair spilling across the pillow. Slowly, she blinked awake, her lashes fluttering like the wings of a butterfly.
Aelin stretched gracefully, every movement delicate, practiced—like the rising of a princess in a tale told by bards. She sat up, the faintest smile touching her lips as she greeted the morning.
The maid curtsied slightly, placing a tray of fruit and warm bread by the bedside. "You shine brighter than the sun itself, my lady," she said with quiet affection.
Aelin lifted her chin, her posture regal even in her youth. "Then let the day be as bright as I am," she replied, her voice soft yet carrying the weight of someone born to be more than ordinary.
The maid brushed the last strands of sleep from Aelin's hair, and as the young girl rose from bed, she carried herself not just as a child—but as a princess destined for something far greater.Aelin's slippers tapped softly against the polished staircase as she descended, sunlight catching the gold trim of her gown. The grand hall smelled faintly of roses, freshly arranged in vases along the walls.
At the bottom of the stairs, her father was waiting—broad-shouldered, his hair touched with silver, yet his eyes softened the moment they found her. He set aside the papers in his hand and stood, a smile blooming across his face.
"There she is," he said warmly, as though the morning had only truly begun with her arrival.
Aelin's lips curved into a shy smile. "Good morning, Father."
He extended his hand, guiding her down the last step as if she were made of porcelain, as if a single misstep might shatter her. Once her feet touched the marble floor, he adjusted a stray lock of her hair, his touch gentle and reverent.
"You are my flower, Aelin," he murmured, pride and tenderness mingling in his voice. "The most precious thing this house has ever known."
Aelin blushed faintly under his gaze, though her spine remained straight, every inch the princess she had been raised to be. "And you are the gardener who never lets me wither," she answered softly.
Her father chuckled, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. "Come—let us have breakfast. The day can wait a little longer while I sit with my daughter."
Together they walked toward the long dining table, the sunlight chasing after them, gilding father and daughter in its glow.